


Process of Invention

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Deals, Developing Relationship, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 18:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16749271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason's been searching a long time for a forge-god, one that can make a weapon to kill one of the big players, and more importantly, who will agree to do it. But a weapon to kill a god isn't an easy thing to ask for, so even when he does finally find one, there's a question that has to first be answered. What's it going to cost?





	Process of Invention

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is like... two days late because the Black-Friday weekend has been kicking my _ass_ , but here we are! This was for Day 1 (hahaha, oops) of the 2018 JayRoy Week. The prompt for the day was 'Myths', and just... maybe don't ask how I got to this. There's a god. And some stories. Just go with it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

The building doesn’t look like much. It’s in a corner of the city, pressed up against the wall, and from the outside it looks like any other blacksmith in the city. Maybe even lesser, because there’s little to no advertisement on the outside, only a sword and shield pinned to the slightly-open door. The sound of a hammer against metal rings out from inside, and a thin trail of smoke leaves from some gap in the roof that Jason can’t see from where he is.

Just another store, except for the stories he’s heard all over the city. Little half-idle mentions of a blacksmith that can fix anything, said with that slight daze that Jason’s long learned to associate with gods. Remembering the encounter, but not the details. Most gods haze their encounters with mortals.

Most.

Jason’s had more experience with gods than most people give him credit for. Most people see the white streak in his hair and call him ‘blessed,’ assuming that some god touched him and passed along some piece of their powers in exchange for service. They’re not wrong exactly; that was the first section of his life, blessed and in service to the Bat.

Not where his streak came from.

The door is made of wood but still warm when he presses his fingers to it, easing it far enough open that he can slip through the gap. The world wavers, shivering and forming anew as he passes the threshold. From the outside the building wouldn’t have been bigger than most lower-class homes, but in here…

High, arched ceilings, a pit of coals in the very center with no discernable source of fuel, and long tables filled with metal in various stages of molding. Some, he recognizes. Swords, armor, axes, but others are small, delicate contraptions he can’t even guess at the use of. Still others glimmer with a beyond-normal reaction to the firelight, easy signs of magic and power. Yeah, he's in the right place. Either this actually is a god, or it's someone heavily enough blessed by one that they'll be able to point him in the right direction.

He can still hear the hammer, but there's no one in sight and the sound… echoes. It's hard to tell exactly where it's coming from, and there are several doors that lead off to other areas. Someone is here, though. Jason can… feel it. It's an itch at the back of his neck, a twist in the pit of his stomach.

It's tempting to go to the tables and examine what's on them, but self-preservation holds him back. He needs a favor, and rifling through the things of whatever blessed mortal or god is in here isn't the way to make a good first impression. Better to not try and sneak in either; if this place is a god's realm, it's likely he was sensed the second he stepped across the threshold. Manners first.

Jason pulls in a breath that tastes like smoke and metal and calls, “Hello?”

The rhythm of the hammer cuts off. A second later the air shivers again and there's suddenly a man by the coal pit in the center of the room. Except, clearly not a man. Not with an entrance like that.

He looks more like one than Jason's used to. Red hair loose around his shoulders, skin maybe paler than a forge would normally allow for, clothing as normal as any other blacksmith's might be. Muscled arms and shoulders, normal height, even streaks of soot along his lower arms. The only things that really stand out about him are the vivid green eyes, which could still be human even if it's unlikely, and the fact that he's not sweating. Standing next to an open pit like that, with coals burning that brightly, any normal human would be sweating.

“Welcome, blessed,” is what he gets. The god's voice is smooth, almost playful as he smiles, wiping the soot from his arms. A pass of fingers shouldn't do anything but smear the streaks of black, but they vanish as if he was holding a cloth. “I don't usually get your kind here.”

“The door was open.”

“But you’d have to be looking, to see that.”

Ah, spelled. A closed door, maybe even just a normal building, unless you’re seeking it. So he wants visitors, or customers, but not just anyone. Only the ones that really want what he has to offer.

Jason lifts his head to take a look at the ceilings, the sculpted, twisting lines of the struts that support it. All of it’s a work of art. “All of this, is that perception too?”

The god smiles, looking almost pleased by his question. “Yes. You expected what I am, so you see the truth. A true mortal that came through that door would only see a small forge, like any other, but you… you’ve sought me out. Specifically. With your kind, usually that means you want something.”

Jason makes a brief face, but he’s not surprised. Gods have a tendency of seeing right through you, if you give them even a scrap of information. “You’re a forge-god?” he asks, for confirmation.

He gets a small shrug as the god shifts forward, a hand outstretching to run fingers along the half-finished projects along one table. The ones that shimmer throw sparks at his touch. “Invention, but there’s overlap. What is it you’ve come for?”

It’s odd for Jason to realize, as the god stops before him, that he’s taller. Taller than a god. He swallows, almost taking a step back at the power he can feel against his skin. Heat, and pressure. It’s force of will that lets him stand his ground, despite how the god looks at him.

Force of will, and the memory of deranged laughter in his ears and the _pain_. “I need a weapon that can kill a god.”

Red eyebrows arch. “That’s quite a need.”

“Or something to trap one for eternity,” Jason adds on. “I don’t care which. I know it’s a big ask; can you do it?”

“I can.”

The god steps forward, lifting a hand, and Jason makes himself stay still as warm fingers leave a streak of heat across his cheek. It doesn’t fade nearly as fast as it should. Jason takes a breath that shakes slightly, forcing his hands not to curl and his body to remain still. If a touch is what this costs, so be it.

“You have power layered over you like folded steel,” the god murmurs, fingertips coming to brush away the streak of white from his forehead. “Different gods, different gifts… It’s one of them?”

Jason holds that green gaze as much as he can. “Do you have to ask?”

“No, but you’re the one that came to me. If you want me to make something to kill one of my brethren, you’ll have to tell me which one, and why.” The god’s hand falls away, and he gives a low, brief laugh. “Give a mortal a weapon that can kill or trap one of us? There are some things that even my kind aren’t supposed to do.”

Sacrifices. It’s all about sacrifices. He knew, coming into this, that he would have to do things he wouldn’t want to. Gods rarely give favors without strings attached, and this isn’t a favor, it’s a commission. It’s going to cost, probably pretty damn heavily.

“Yes,” he gives, reluctantly. “It’s one of them.”

“Who are they?”

Jason makes a disbelieving noise. The god must be able to feel it on his skin; Talia commented on being able to, during his time with her, and she’s not even a full god. But that’s not what this is about.

The words feel dragged from his lungs. “Justice, chaos, and rebirth.”

“Heavy hitters.” The god crosses his arms, and it brings into sharp focus the black tattoos on his upper arms, ink shifting slightly beneath his skin at every breath. “I’m a minor god, you know that, right?”

Jason shrugs. “Does it matter if you’re minor, if you can make what I want?”

A small, crooked grin is the reaction he gets, but only for a moment. “Which one do you want dead? Or gone?”

He doesn’t really want to have to say that either, but something tells him that the god’s not going to let him get away with being vague. So he swallows, tries not to think too heavily about _why_ , and says, “Chaos.”

Not a hint of surprise.

“There’s a bit of chaos in invention,” the god points out, and Jason feels his stomach drop. If he’s come to the one forge-god tied to chaos, that could hand-deliver him back to that bastard… “It’s alright, I don’t work for him, there are just pieces of me that benefit from his influence. Why should I help you destroy that?”

Jason’s next breath comes sharp, even though he tries to calm it. He makes himself take a slower breath, and exhale it just as slowly. The god waits with apparent patience for Jason to meet his eyes again, and lay his cards on the table. Because in the end, he has nothing to bargain with.

Slowly, he lowers himself to both knees. Bows his head, despite how it makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up. “I’ll pay any price you want,” he promises. “Just name it.”

There’s a moment of silence, and stillness. Then fingers touch his jaw, tilting his head back up. Even if he wanted to resist, he can feel the strength in them. The god’s brow is furrowed, eyes a little bit narrowed. The fingers cup his cheek, brushing his ear and his hair and spreading warmth into his skin. It chases away a little bit of the chill that’s clung in his bones since the third god of his life dragged him back from death’s grasp.

“What’s your name?” he’s asked. The question is soft.

“Is that the price?” he can’t help saying, and he can feel his voice fraying around the edges.

The god smiles, as soft as his voice, and shakes his head. “No; just a question.”

The breath he takes doesn’t feel like quite enough. “Jason.”

“Jason…” The hand slips away from his jaw, and offers itself, palm up. “You don’t seem like someone that should be on their knees.”

For a moment, all Jason can do is stare. Then he jerks into motion, gripping the hand with his own and letting the god pull him to his feet with easy, effortless strength. His legs don’t feel quite steady under him, but for some reason the warm palm wrapped around his holds on until the moment when he’s sure he can stand on his own. Only then does it let go.

“You can call me Roy.”

Such a human name for a god, but then, most of them take human names. Something to blend in, to make them feel a little more human than if they spoke in titles or syllables so laden with power they hurt whoever hears them. Human minds, even blessed ones, can’t hold onto a god’s real name anyway. No, they need something… easy, for mortal minds.

“Thank you,” he says belatedly, remembering that a name from a god is a gift as much as anything else. They like to be thanked.

One of ‘Roy’s’ hands lifts, and for a second Jason thinks he’s going to get touched again but then the god glances past him. He hears the door shut. Paranoia says to look back, but he forces himself not to. It won’t change anything.

“No one will interrupt.” Roy’s gaze comes back to him. “Show me why you want this.”

As much as he wants to, Jason can’t pretend that he doesn’t know what the god is asking for. He shuts his eyes, can’t hold the intense green of Roy’s gaze, but he lifts both his hands to his clothing. It’s easy enough to strip the layers, the air warm enough that the only chill he feels is the one he can’t shake anyway. He knows his hands are shaking slightly, but he forces the last layer of cloth over his head, and forces his fingers to let it drop next to everything else.

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know what’s there.

Scars, thick and heavy, that pull with every twist he makes. Some spell out words in ancient, unknown languages and still burn with even a touch, and the branded symbol on his chest is a mockery of the god he first gave service to. Not that he _gave_ service to any of them. He’s always just been given, or taken. Every time.

He shouldn’t be alive. Death still clings to him, even though Talia ripped him from its grasp. He… He _knows_. He can _feel_ it, in his bones, in the ache of injuries that never healed and never will. Maybe her creator’s power sealed over the bloody rawness of it all but he’s not meant to be alive. He should be as dead as he was when they buried him beneath the earth.

“It’s a shame,” Roy says, pulling his thoughts out of their spiral and pushing him to open his eyes, “to mar such a wonderful creation.”

Jason blinks, and finds Roy looking at him without any of the pity or disgust he’s become used to. Just assessment, and a bit of a frown that almost looks like disapproval. Not aimed at him, but at his scars. He doesn’t know how to react to that.

Roy shakes his head slightly, and his gaze lifts to Jason’s. “I won’t help you kill him, the world would fall too far out of balance. But I’ll help you trap him. Agreed?”

His breath comes out in a sharp rush, and he wants to say _yes_ , to immediately grab onto the opportunity, but he forces himself to bite down on the urge. Carefully, he inhales again and asks, “What’s the price?”

Shoulders lift and fall in a careless shrug. “I don’t know. Let’s say a favor, to be claimed after you’ve trapped him. If you survive.” Roy glances around the room, and is smiling when he looks back. Small but bright. “And stay with me, while I build what you’ll need. It’s been a long time since I had a mortal as a guest, and I work better with company.”

That doesn't sound like too bad a deal. What are the chances he'll actually live through trapping the god of chaos? Even if he does, what could he be asked for that he would even care about, at that point?

"How long will it take?" he asks.

Jason's not expecting the immediate answer of, "No idea. I haven't thought of it yet. Until I get an idea, I don’t have any estimate of timing. No worries, though. I’ll make sure that as long as you’re in my realm, here, you won’t age. No matter how long it takes."

Okay, that’s… Fair point. Not something he’d thought about, but fair point. It’s not like he had any other plans anyway. No one he knows will want to see him, even the ones that know he’s alive, and he doesn’t have anything planned for his life. What life would that even be? He’s a dead man walking; there’s nothing out there for him.

He nods. Then, bracing himself, agrees. “Deal.”

"Deal," the god agrees, and there's a shiver of the world around them at the word. Enough to make Jason lightheaded for a second. "Come on then, let me show you the guest room. You can clean up, eat or rest if you want. I'm not completely familiar with human needs, I admit." The confession comes with a small laugh, and Roy's gaze stays on his face the whole time. It's different. Welcome. "You'll have to tell me if I miss anything."

"I think I can do that."

Roy tilts his head towards the back end of the room and then turns to lead the way. Jason kneels down for exactly long enough to grab the pile of his clothing before following. The god walks right past the coal pit, but Jason has to veer off to the side as they approach, taking a slightly longer direction to avoid getting too close to the intense heat of it.

The room Roy leads him to might as well be a home all on its own; certainly bigger than anywhere Jason’s ever stayed. It’s one large, open space, the separate ‘rooms’ divided by half-walls and shelves. Roy explains it all, briefly, promises to supply anything that he’s missing, and vanishes back out the door with a smile.

It hits Jason, then, how tired he is. The tension in his shoulders feels like a heavy weight, and being out of the god’s presence makes him realize how much having that power against his skin sapped his energy. Not that he had much when he walked in; it’s been a long… Years. It’s been years, since he actually felt like he was well rested.

The bed calls, but he takes enough time to detour to the already-full bathing pool in the corner, steaming but somehow _not_ making the entire room humid. God tricks, must be. The water is hot enough to be just on the edge of too much, and perfect. It soaks through his muscles, and it’s only when he starts to catch himself dozing off that he pries himself out of the water.

The bed is just as good; soft and warm, especially when he buries himself under the furs on top.

He’s asleep before the chill can come back.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere, in the haze of dreams and nightmares and sleep, he’s distantly aware of shivering. Of green eyes, bright and soft, and the shift of the world. It all fades into the same indistinct world, softened into blurred corners like everything in sleep.

When it eventually comes to an end, everything comes… slow. There’s heat against his skin, soft fur underneath and above him, and he’s… warm. Warm all the way through.

The oddity of that is what pushes him to open his eyes.

This is… not the bed he went to sleep in. It’s the same fur blanket over him, he’s pretty sure, but he’s lying on a rug on the floor, in front of an ornate fireplace. Definitely not something that was in his room; there was a fireplace, but this one is… Godly. Godly’s a good word for it.

Looking at it more closely is going to have to wait for a different time. He yanks his gaze away from the draw of all those tiny, intricate details in the border and twists away, bracing both hands in the fur rug to push himself up. This is definitely not the room he was shown to, though it’s got the same open floor plan. It's bigger for one, and it looks more lived in. In a… weird way. No dust, no discarded clothes or whatever, just general disorganization. Bits of projects lie on the tables, and most of the seats, some recognizable and some decidedly not. The bed, which he can just see from his spot near the fire, has the blankets and furs over it thrown back, like someone all but rushed out of it.

Jason pulls the fur around him as he fully sits up, reluctant to move away from the fire as much because of its heat as because he doesn’t know where the god, Roy, is and he doesn’t really feel like running into him unexpectedly in nothing but his underthings. Or going out into the main room, for that matter. What if the door is open again and there’s someone else out there?

Not that staying here gives him all that many options. At a first glance his clothes didn’t get moved in here with him, and though there is a dresser near the bed it doesn’t seem like a great idea to pilfer clothing from a god. Not without invitation.

The door opens before he can get too far into planning, admitting Roy to the room. His arms are wrapped around a bundle of metal in varying colors; Jason can’t name them all but he can at least identify the silver and gold mixed in there.

Roy grins over the armful when he looks towards Jason and the fire. “You’re up! Sleep well?”

Surprisingly well, but he settles for, “Yeah.” He clears his throat, watching as Roy heads towards the largest table. “Uh, why am I in here?”

The god frowns at the surface, already covered with bits of things, then waves a dismissive hand and vanishes a good chunk of them. Or maybe doesn’t vanish but just moves, because Jason hears a distant, muffled crash from somewhere through the still open door. A crash that Roy stares in the direction of, intently, and then shrugs and apparently decides to ignore. The bundle of metal strips in his arms gets set down on the table in the place of whatever the half-finished things before were.

Right when Jason thinks he’s going to have to ask again, Roy says, “You couldn’t seem to keep warm, so I brought you here. I imagine the cold wasn’t going to hurt you, but mortals have never been my area. More comfortable at least, right?”

No, the chill doesn’t hurt him, not really. (Not as far as he knows, anyway.) But it’s tiring, keeps his sleep fitful, most nights. “Why here?”

Roy moves closer, coming to stand at the edge of the rug Jason’s lying on, looking past him and to the hearth. He flicks one hand towards it. “That fire was a gift; it can heat anything.” A glance down to him, and a soft smile. “Even the cold that death’s touch leaves behind.”

Jason feels his breath catch. He knew that Roy would be able to tell whose power had touched him, but he didn't think… "How much do you know?"

The god sinks down to a crouch, gaze falling back to the fire. “I’ve heard of you. A boy working for the god of justice, taken from him and killed before he could be saved. The rest of it wasn’t as clear, but there were rumors that the same boy might not yet be done with this world. We talk; trade stories. I guess you being here is the confirmation, isn’t it?”

It’s tough to swallow, to clear his throat enough that he can take his next breath without it choking him. The only thing that comes to his tongue is, “Does it change anything?”

There’s a brief pause, but then Roy shakes his head, looking over at him. “I don’t owe allegiance to any of them. I’ll make you the trap, don’t worry.” He pushes back to his feet, and Jason has to tilt his head back to keep meeting his eyes. “Let me know if you want anything. You’re welcome to pick some clothes out of my dresser if you want to, or your things are over by the door.”

Craning to the side, looking around a chair very much in the way, Jason can confirm that the pile of his clothes and things is indeed sitting over by the door. Good; that eases at least one worry in his chest. (Not that his weapons are going to do any good against a god, if it comes to that, but they’re comforting to have within reach regardless.)

“Thank you,” he says belatedly, pulling the fur blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. Maybe it was weird waking up here, but it is nice. Warm in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.

Gods and personal boundaries never get along anyway, in his experience. This is pretty harmless.

Roy smiles, but doesn’t answer him. He goes to the table instead, spreading the strips of metal out with one hand and leaning over them, fingers finding apparently particular ones with ease. Jason watches, curious more than anything.

Admittedly, he gets a little spark of wariness when the god starts bending the strips into shape with his bare hands, with barely any apparent effort. Some of them are gold, true, and he remembers vaguely that that’s a fairly soft metal, but some of them are most definitely not. Iron or something, if he had to guess. Nothing that a human would be able to bend without tools or a flame.

It’s a somehow more tangible proof than the suddenly appearing, or the heat in his touch. Slowly, watching those strips turn into… something, Jason feels that warmth calling to him again. Well, it’s not like he has anything to do, right? He can just…

He lies back down on the rug, drowsiness tugging at his consciousness until he closes his eyes and lets it pull him under once again.

 

* * *

 

Roy is unlike any god Jason’s met before. Granted, his past experiences have been what Roy called ‘heavy hitters,’ certainly no one that would be content to just stay in a forge all day, talking about nothing important and fiddling with pieces of metal.

It’s productivity, but it’s not any kind that Jason’s familiar with. Roy seems to jump from project to project with only breaths between, maybe adding only a few lines of decoration before moving on. It takes almost a week — he thinks; time isn’t the most consistent in here — for Roy to even start to work on the trap, his questions about _when_ it would happen only met with variations of, ‘I have to have an idea.’

Slowly, he comes to understand it. There has to be the idea, yes, but also the drive to work on it. And each new thing seizes hold like a hook, dragging Roy along for a time before he manages to divert his attention to something older. Whatever looks interesting again.

Chaos in invention indeed.

He’s anxious at first, worried about how long it’s going to take, and what might happen in between, and what that means for the people he knows. Or knew, more accurately. It’s not like he’s talked to anyone but Ra’s’ group since he was brought back.

But it all fades. With time, and with Roy’s surprisingly pleasant company — it’s been a long time since someone would let him just sit and listen for most of the conversation, and not get offended by that — it stops mattering how long it’s going to take. He has everything he needs here, and he’s waited a long time for even a chance at… He’s not going to call it justice. It’s not for his old master’s benefit, it’s just what needs to be done. He can wait as long as he needs to for that.

So he… lives. Eats, sleeps, gets to know the god he’s sharing the home of. He likes Roy, as it turns out. He didn’t expect it, but yeah, he definitely does.

Roy’s… a force. Obviously. But it’s in terms of more than just power. He talks and works and never seems to run out of enthusiasm for it, no matter how trivial or repetitive whatever he’s doing is, no matter how little Jason understands of what he’s explaining. Like it’s less having someone understand him and more just having someone listening to his thoughts as he says them aloud.

Jason, somehow, never ends up feeling replaceable though. Every time he starts to, Roy will smile at him, or drape a blanket around his shoulders from out of nowhere, or ask _him_ a question, and that feeling fades like it was never there. Roy just looks at him with such _focus_ , such _attention_ , that it’s hard to believe that he’s not the absolute center of that moment.

It’s different. He’s never been a… focus. He was one of several when he was in training, a chosen servant but not the only one, and things didn’t change after. Even Talia, with all her drive towards reviving him for her ‘great love,’ was always actually focused on something else. She assumed that he would manage himself, past how she’d ‘fixed’ him. She wasn’t wrong.

Being someone’s center of attention is a little weird, but Jason’s pretty sure he likes it. It’s easy to be here, and easy isn’t something he has much experience with.

He has no idea how much time’s passed when Roy finally comes to him, leading him off to the center of the main forge and presenting him with what looks like nothing so much as a basket of metal snakes. They’re still, coiled, but when Roy lowers a hand to pick one up it coils itself around his arm, sinuous and moving exactly nothing like metal should.

Jason watches it, as Roy lowers his hand back to the basket and it slides right back off, joining the others in inert stillness.

“They feed off the power of whatever they touch,” he explains, setting the basket down between them. “Touch him with any one of them, and the rest will come to life to join them. Chaos needs something adaptable to contain it, and as long as he has power, these will do it. Also…”

Jason lifts his gaze from the basket as Roy reaches into a pocket, coming out with what looks like a necklace. Dark-colored chain, and a pendant of twisting red, orange, and gold in delicate, thin lines. It’s held out to him.

“Hardened flame,” Roy says, with a smile. “Try it on.”

He doesn’t know if it’s trust, exactly, that makes him take the necklace, but the chain is smooth against his fingers when he lifts it and settles it around his neck. Immediate heat rushes out from the center of his chest when the pendant touches it, spreading down his limbs and up his throat even as he gasps and takes a step back in automatic reaction. His fingers jerk the chain away, but before he can get if back over his head the heat starts to fade. Not completely, but away from almost too much and into a pervasive, settling warmth.

Like the fire, he realizes, as his heart settles too. This feels like lying in front of the fire.

“Wear that, and you’ll never be cold.” Roy’s voice is soft, and Jason… He doesn’t know what to say. Can’t think of anything to say that would convey his tight throat and the relieved _gratitude_ in his chest. “I’ve got armor for you too, and a new sword if you want it. If you’re going to trap a god, you should wear something that can take a hit.”

Jason presses his hand to the pendant, closing his palm around it and letting the tips dig into his skin. That little touch of pain lets him breathe a little more evenly, and actually look Roy in the eyes.

He doesn’t know what he means to say, even as he opens his mouth, but what comes out is, “I didn’t ask for that.”

Roy’s smile is crooked. “No, you didn’t. But I like you alive, so I figured I’d give you the best chance of staying that way.”

“For the favor I’m going to owe you?”

“Sure, that can be why.”

The urge to really ask _why_ itches at him, because that was not a real answer at all, but Jason shuts his mouth and swallows the question. He’s being offered a gift, and Roy’s not asking him for anything in exchange, so he should just let his curiosity die and take what’s being given. Maybe, if he survives this, he can figure out the rest. He’ll have to come back here, after all.

So, instead of saying anything else, he just nods. “Thank you.”

It doesn’t feel like enough, or the right thing to say, but Roy smiles like it is. “You’re welcome. Come on, let me show you the rest.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a sharp, lovely satisfaction in dumping the ‘Joker,’ bound in Roy’s ever-moving snakes, at the door of his old home. He doesn’t stick around to see the reaction, but he leaves a note. Signed, and with a warning for certain gods — that he’s not naming, or hopefully ever actually seeing again — to not touch the snakes. He doesn’t actually know if they’ll move on if given a different power source, but he doesn’t want to risk it.

And it’s… done. He’s done.

Chaos isn’t gone, but the actual embodiment of it has been trapped for long enough that no one he knows will have to worry about it again, and he’s protected the world for… Well, he never asked exactly how long those snakes will last, but he’d guess a long, long time.

Maybe he took a couple extra shots after they were on too, just for the satisfaction of it. Just a couple.

He travels slowly, after that. He has nothing to rush towards, nothing to do but head back towards the city he found Roy in, but this time he actually takes in the country he travels through. It’s… pretty. Peaceful, sometimes, which is a pretty new experience for him too.

Eventually, he gets back to the city. From there it’s easy to find the end-street corner, the door with its sword and shield. Half-open, just like it was.

He slips inside, closes his eyes through that shiver of the world as he steps from the normal world into Roy’s realm. Transport to a different place or just a shift of the world to make it fit in this corner, he hasn’t asked. Maybe he will, now.

This time, he doesn’t have to call a greeting. Roy is there at the center firepit, heating what looks like a blade in the coals. But he’s already turning as Jason looks, lifting the blade to shove it into a nearby trough of water with a loud hiss of steam, almost carelessly. He’s almost grinning, hair pulled back in a loose tie.

“Jason,” he calls, and it actually sounds pleased, almost excited. “Welcome back.”

Jason feels a small smile tug at the corner of his own mouth. He heads forward, setting his pack aside in time for Roy to meet him, hands coming up to hold his face and trace thumbs over his cheekbones.

“And all in one piece, too,” Roy points out. “I knew you’d won; felt it happen. Glad to see you’re alive and well, on top of that.”

“Armor was useful,” he says. “It’s a little melted now.” He hopes, even though he’s not saying it, that Roy understands that the armor is melted, but he’s _not_. He’s never been as grateful for armor, honestly.

“Well, I can fix it. Or make something new.”

Jason breathes in, slowly, and the smell of the air is strikingly, comfortingly familiar. Smoke, metal, a _current_ that he can’t name but feels nonetheless. Traveling, seeing the world for the first time without a mission haunting his steps, was nice, but this feels… safe. Good.

His eyes have closed somehow, and he pulls them back open to find Roy looking at him. Smiling. Something in his chest feels light.

Quietly, in the air between them, he points out, “I owe you a favor.”

Roy inclines his head slightly, and the thumbs stroke his cheeks again, leaving streaks of heat in their path. “Stay with me?”

That thing in his chest bursts, and he doesn’t know what it is but it’s exhilarating and terrifying and makes his breath shake a little. “Is that the favor?”

“No.” Roy smiles, and Jason remembers their earliest conversation just in time for the, “Just a question,” to feel familiar.

For the first time, in a _long_ fucking time, Jason laughs. Quiet and rough, his head lowering into the touch of Roy’s hands. “Yeah,” he manages, eventually. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He doesn’t complain when those hands, warm and strong, pull him in.

Roy’s mouth tastes like metal too.


End file.
